


Running Out of Film

by lessthankind



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Panic Attacks, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 05:45:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6503332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lessthankind/pseuds/lessthankind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one of us to survive.  Poor baby.<br/>Mark has a panic attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Out of Film

Roger is going to die.

Mark's breathing stutters, quickens, shakes, he's hyperventilating, can't help it.

Roger's gonna die.

"Everyone dies," he repeats quietly, his voice cracking. It's been his mantra.

Everyone dies, there's nothing you can do, and don't forget, someday you'll die too.

Live for today, live for now, or else you're gonna get wrapped up in death and you might as well be dead.

Roger won't die for years. He takes his AZT, he eats as healthy as he can now that they can skim off the ATM at the Food Emporium, now that Mark has a little bit of money. Roger's careful not to get sick.

Mark won't lose him for years. But he will lose him. Roger will die.

Mark curls up in bed and cries. It's stupid, but he doesn't care, and anyway he's not just crying for Roger, he's crying for April, for Angel, for Mimi, for Collins, for himself, too.

Good old HIV negative Mark. The one to survive.

He feels selfish. He's crying because he gets to live, but that's the thing. He'll end up alone. Alone with his camera at the end of the film.

And Roger will die. No more crooked smiles and Musetta's Waltz. No more someones to make coffee for in the morning. No more late nights and Stoli, no more consoling from nightmares and no more days where Roger wants nothing but to shoot up. No more grins directed at him over the heads of their friends at Life, no more warm, calloused fingers finding his wrist. No more leather jacket smell, no more helping him bleach his hair. No more nights where the heat goes out and they curl up in one bed with every blanket in the house and hold on for dear life. No more camera following Roger's profile, getting a middle finger and a hand shoved at the lens. No more listening to Roger sing him softly to sleep in a raspy whisper, neither of them questioning the way they fit together on the couch.

No more Roger.

He realizes belatedly that he's having a panic attack.

His vision tunnels, he can't seem to breathe. Roger's gonna die, Roger's dying, Roger's dying, Roger's dead, oh god, oh god, oh-

There's a warm hand rubbing circles in his back.

"Mark. You're ok. Mark, listen to me. You're ok. I've got you."

Roger sounds scared. Mark hates that he does that to him, makes him worry. He can't seem to catch his breath.

"Roger." Mark winces. His voice sounds like a kid's.

"I'm here, buddy." Roger curls up against his back and holds him, his nose in Mark's hair. "Breathe."

Mark tries. It gets easier after a few moments.

"Roger," he says again. 

"Yeah?"

Mark feels the words on the tip of his tongue. Don't die. Don't leave me. I don't want to be alone. I love you.

"Thanks."


End file.
